


Because I Wanted To

by Hypomone535



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, One Shot, Season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 00:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16671160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypomone535/pseuds/Hypomone535
Summary: After The parentage reveal Jon and Sansa talk.





	Because I Wanted To

**Author's Note:**

> This was a response to a tumblr post!  
> The user said: “I need Jon and Sansa to kiss out of anger and frustration ok! I need them to have a heated argument and all that tension bubbles over into out of body make out session!” 
> 
> I couldn’t just ignore that plea. Here is what came out of that. Hope you enjoy. ❤️

The knock came on the door well into the evening, long after the normal bustle of the castle had stilled.  This night was colder than most, the presence of the visitors at Winterfell had the whole castle on edge.   

The pounding came again.  Sansa’s eyes flickered to the door and then to her sister who sat against her bed clad in men’s leather and a grey vest.  

A disgruntled noise came from her throat, “I’m not opening the door for you.”  She half laughed through her disdain and looked back to the Valerian steel dagger that lay in her lap. 

The shudder tingled through Sansa’s hands remembering Littlefinger’s blood; red and wet splattered over the stone of the Great Hall.  Standing, she moved toward the door and pinned Arya with her stare, “I wish you would put that away or better yet, bury it in the snow.” 

Opening the door her hardened features softened, if only slightly.  Her back straightened, “What do you want?”  

“Can I come in?” His shoulders were covered in his fur, the one made by her hand.  Body flexed inward, Jon’s eyes touched every corner and surface but her. 

The younger sister came up behind Sansa, “Jon?”

Jon’s eyes flashed to Sansa then back to Arya, “I need to talk to Sansa.”

Arya sheathed the dagger and crossed her arms over her chest, “Where have you been hiding?”

Jon’s jaw clenched, the grey of his eyes billowing, “Please Arya.”

Opening the door wider she brushed past, allowing Jon space to enter.  Eyeing them both, his morose sunken features and Sansa’s pretty hands clasped at her little waist, Arya’s lips turned into a crooked smirk.  Holding the dagger out to her sister, she almost laughed, “For your protection from the Targaryens Lady Stark.”

 Sansa’s cheeks grew pink as her eyebrows shot up, “Goodnight Arya.”  She shut the door in her face without taking the offered weapon.

Walking into the room Jon observed the familiar surroundings.  Roaring fire, a simple desk laden with papers and correspondence, and her fragrance that made his chest ache, that strange oasis of calm setting into his limbs.  As he walked ahead of her, he could feel her presence moving behind him.  A vision of red hair and snow flashed through his body, the walls suddenly pressed in closer. 

His hands flexed at his sides, and then disappeared under his furs to unclasp the heavy layer.  Coming up behind him she was there to take them, the brush of her skirt against his legs.

“Thank you,” his first words came to her raspy and quiet. 

Laying the bundle against her bed she made her way to the table.  “Are you thirsty?  Arya left her ale.  It shouldn’t surprise me that she drinks it.  Not really, considering the other things she does.”

Jon turned to look at Sansa, comfortably standing next to the pitcher of ale, but her weight was shifty dancing from one foot to the other.  Her long hair was braided and lay against her shoulder.  The blue of her dress was deep like the Last River, the firelight shimmering off of her in waves.  His eyes swept up into hers, calm and serene like the sea just before a storm.

The air was thick in her solar, a mixture of warmth and the winter cold.  And as their eyes held across the room, the same combination balanced between them. 

“Will you at least sit down?” She cleared her throat pointing to a chair, “It is not as if we are strangers.”  Many times before he’d left for Dragonstone he would come and sit with her here.  Most of the time they didn’t say much, but the hum of her body next to his had brought a peace to his weary bones.  Sitting next to her had given Jon courage to make the moves he needed to ensure the North’s survival.  

The fire crackled and the storm blew outside and for a moment he imagined it was like before.  The quiet unity that had existed between them before he’d ridden south had reshaped him.  The cold black bloom of death had claimed him, but her sea had crashed over him, the waves sculpting new curves into his life.  Longing to grasp it he hesitated, almost able to taste the sweetness of what they’d shared.

She looked over him again, his burdened shoulders and his tight features, “Please?”  

 He nodded reaching around his body to take off his belt.  After removing his gloves, he sat the things aside and settled himself in the offered chair. 

Sansa poured him a mug of ale and settled down beside him.  Holding out the mug to him, she smiled sadly, “Despite appearances, I am happy you are home.”

A new weariness dug into the worry lines on his forehead.  Reaching his hand up, he was careful not to touch her when he took the mug from her hand.

The silence between them was different, stretched by some truth hovering so close to the surface.  Robust and warm he brought the liquid to his lips, relishing in the comfort of the drink.  Looking over to her, he remembered the mug of ale they shared, in front of that far away fire, when he thought she was his sister.  Unsteady beneath his leather, his heart jumped again; the privacy of her room once again floating into his thoughts.

He sat the mug down on the floor, “Davos told me about Baelish.”

She bit down on her teeth, her mouth set in a hard line, her fingers spread against her lap.  

 It was a natural instinct to reach out to her, but he stayed his hand, “I wish I could have seen the look on his face.” He watched her lips and the features of her face change.  “Does it bother you?”

“Why would it?”

“You were close, once.”

 “An illusion, like much of his life.  He had to pay for the crimes he committed against our family.  And you’re right, I take no pleasure in death, but if I had any pity for him it wasn’t enough to stop what had to be done.”

She shook her head, “You didn’t come here to talk about Littlefinger.”

He pulled in a heavy breath, “No, I didn’t.”

“So the rumors are true?”  Her voice didn’t waver and her eyes held his, unintimidated by such a question.

 His body leaned foward, eyes roaming over her body.  The players and the pieces of the game swirled in his head, matching his insides with the howling wind. 

The neat brows arched waiting for him to answer, “Davos speaks to me too.” 

 He looked down, his hand moving over his beard, “It’s not what you think.”

It was only a week ago that he’d ridden through the gates of Winterfell.  In her mind she pictured his familiar face and the way his eyes beamed in happiness, such a contrast now.  Her head shifted to the side, “When you arrived, you told me you’d tried to be smarter.  What did you mean?”

“I wanted you to know I tried, but things got complicated.”

 “Complicated?”  Her voice grew steely in an instant, the tension in the room bubbling to the surface.  “Don’t insult me with a half truth, and don’t pretend this alliance is purely political.”

His body angled further in her direction, “But it’s what needs to be said.  Everything thing I have done was for the North.  For you.”

Sansa stood her eyes cast into the fire.  She heard him follow her, the attention of his body like Ghost when he hunts.  “Are you still trying to protect me?”

Jon swallowed, a strong awareness of his quickening breath distracted him, “Aye.”

 The back of her neck prickled, her ears suddenly filling with heat, “Arya has done a good job while you’ve been away.”

Taking a few steps forward he stood behind her shoulder.   Maintaining steady eye contact with the side of her face, he nodded.  “I know she has, but it’s different now.  She is different now.”

Sansa thought about her sister, the contrasting images of the past and present confusing her senses.  A strange pride bubbled in her heart.  This new version of Arya was terrifying, but hedged with the same fierceness that Sansa use to despise.  Perhaps that is what House Stark needed now that Jon was-

“We understand each other now, I think.”  She cut her thoughts off as her mind reminded her once again Jon was not her brother.  She turned to look at him, not realizing he was so close.  A shiver tumbled over them as her arm brushed his.

Her fingers ached, tingling with a need to touch, “I wish I could understand you.”

“Daenerys is our best chance at survival.”

Sansa swayed on her heels, “Do you honestly believe that?”

“Aye I do.”

“And what happens after?”  Her cheeks splattered with red splotches, “We named you our king, not because we believed you father’s bastard son, but because of who you are.  For what you did Jon!  You united the North, wilding and lord.  We would have followed you into the Long Night with or without fire.  I don’t want to be at odds, but I do not agree bending the knee to Daenerys is the only way.”

Sansa continued, “Now if the North is not free we are all her subjects.  We must bow to whoever she commands, we must go wherever she decides and we must marry…” Her voice fell away her ivory skin going from fire to winter.

The paleness caught Jon in the memory of her falling into his arms at Castle Black.  A fierce protectiveness rose inside of him, “I won’t let her.”

“If the North is one of her kingdoms, then I am one of her subjects.”  Abruptly she took a step back, the past haunting her, making it harder for her to soften.  “I am only a servant to the realm now.”

“Sansa…”  He swallowed; the truth fell from his lips easily now as her panic deepened, “I told you, it’s not what you think.”

“You bent the knee!”

 “You told me to be smarter than father and I have tried.  I’ll let the Queen believe whatever she wants to believe until the White Walkers are gone.  Because I believe we need her, but I don’t need her.”

Sansa’s mouth parted, a heavy feeling settling in her stomach.  Covered in fog, her brain tried to form a coherent thought, “But you slept with her.”

Jon’s hand was suspended between them, nearly touching her, “When she summoned me, I didn’t refuse her.  I’ve seen her reaction before when she doesn’t get what she wants.”  

Her shoulders rose and fell as she sucked in a deep breath, “Jon you idiot.”

The features of his face fell, a flush of adrenaline washing through his body.  He canceled the space between them with two steps, speaking directly into her face.  “I did what you told me to do.”

 Her voice rose an octave, “And how will she react now when the war is over and she finds out you tricked her?”

The boots shifted towards her, his own words forceful and hard, “When this is over, if I make it out alive, I’ll be the one to pay for my lies!”

 Sansa’s eyes rounded her voice still hard, “Is that what you think?  That my worry is for myself and not for you?”

The fire crackled and sputtered, his chest heaving with the rhythm of the howling wind.  He sucked in a deep breath, the scent he always associated with her, filled him, burning a hole in his chest. “No.  I know it’s not.”

She shook her head looking down at her hands.  Absently, she rubbed the folds of her dress, her voice flat, as were her palms against her skirt.  “You will not die.  You are the Prince that was Promised.  The red priestess said so herself.”

His eyes closed his body weary, “I am not Sansa, nor have I ever been.” The words fell quietly from his lips, a long ago prophecy meaning nothing to him.   

 Holding his eyes, she fought against his selflessness.  Reaching out she finally touched him, grabbing his arm with iron fingers.  The hair at the nape of his neck rose, causing his face to turn up to hers. 

“You are a Stark.” She spoke with authority, “The Blood of Winterfell by your father or your mother!”  

 Looking down, he saw her delicate fingers spread against his leather.  The touch could be felt in more than just his forearm, a strange feeling curled inside, oozing warmth into his tingling limbs, “I am not a Stark and I am neither a prince nor any part of that prophecy.”

Her fingers gripped tighter, her voice low she growled at him, “Don’t you dare tell me your death wouldn’t matter.”     

Jon fought his hand, clamping it to his side, “It won’t matter if I survive!  Only if you…”  His forearm tensed under her hand, “If the North endures you win, with or without me.”   

Her chest rose and fell, as her hand traveled up to his chest, gripping his jerkin.  Her voice was low and absolute, “There is no North without you.”

A distant clamor of reason moved through him but he knocked it away, surrendering to the nucleus, the burning that permeated his smiles, his touches, and sparked his anger. The vision of snow and wind and red flashed again, as he stepped into her, grabbing her slender waist.      

Plush and hot, the heavy darkness was suddenly suspended, the moment their lips met in a hard clash.  At first, he was marble, silencing her words with the steel cage of his mouth. The mantle of leadership and duty he left forgotten, the feeling of her the only thought that mattered now. 

Flesh to flesh, their mouths connected in blistering storm, angry and violent, but splattering the earth with needed sustenance.  It wasn’t like anything he could conjure in his deepest secret longings.  The warmth was sunrise, cloaking him in the protection of light.  She was the uncharted sea and he pushed further into her waters, hands sliding up from her waist.   

A gasp sputtered from her lips, unsealing the tumult.  Her eyes were round, but soft, her brow furrowed in a wonderful mystery, “Why did you do that?” her breathy whisper filled the space between them.

He should say something, she deserved some explanation for his impulsive act but as he watched the sea rise and fall in her eyes words seemed too small of an offering to give her.  He owed her something beautiful, but he had never been good with fancy words, “I wanted to shut your mouth.”

She jerked, his words causing the fire to ignite, her mouth ready to spit words at him once more, so he covered her mouth with his again. 

Warmth traveled from their connection and pooled and tickled in her belly.  A sensation of weakness pulled her off his lips, “Jon…” 

At his name, the rush of something filled his body like he was finally able to breathe again after holding his breath for several moons, “Stop talking,” his voice grumbled the command. 

 His eyes closed as he fell again, into the abyss of the sweetest sea.  This time his lips were more accurate and his hands more free.  Pulling her against him as if they were fated, a natural fit for the other.  The small moan that fell against his mouth only encouraged him to plunge deeper. 

The pulse of their bodies was heady, and both of them rode the surge, mouths opening and tongues taking their first taste.  Somewhere inside him he acknowledged the desire that beat under the leather that clad his chest; No this was neither new nor fleeting, a foolish action, but necessary for him.  He could live out this second life, sustained only on the taste of her; a winter sunrise masked as flesh.

 It was strange, his reaction to such a question.  With her body still under his hands it was hard to think about anything but his preference for her over everything else.  Suddenly, thrones and armies, and foreign queens didn’t matter.  Only copper hair wrapped in the fragrance that now he could name.   

“Because I wanted to,” finally came his breathless answer. “I want you.”  

 There was a flash behind her eyes, but she didn’t move in his arms or try to escape him.  Then the indignation melted away to reveal her own curiosity, albeit muted, it was there.  Her ivory fingers moved from against his chest to stroke the black beard. 

Her teeth fell on her plush ample lip causing the pink to turn red.  Lifting up her eyes, the blue sea merged into the grey storm, a sweltering winter, “What do we do now?”

           

              

 


End file.
